


Soft as Candlelight

by PontiusHermes



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstage, Dedication to Art, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Music, Sickfic, Singing, Sneezing, non-romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PontiusHermes/pseuds/PontiusHermes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is sick and Mme. Giry wants to look after him.<br/>*I am using the Mme. Giry from the musical, not from the book*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the interval of a performance, most backstage corridors throb with performers, stagehands, those concerned with the wardrobe, those never seen by the audience, but upon whom the very performance rests. Most backstage corridors, but, as Mme. Giry knows after more than half a lifetime in the opera house, not all. It is in an alcove in one of the darker, more twisted, less known corridors that she finds him. He is wrapped in his cloak, shivering slightly, his brow furrowed. He sniffs miserably, and she can hear that he is unwell.

"Erik?"

He looks up, startled. It is usually he who startles her; he often knows she is coming, where she if from and where she is going, if she has time to talk to him. His lack of vigilance fuels her concern.

"Please pardon me. I did not realise you were there or I wouldn't have --"

Heavy footfalls approach and Erik's eyes widen.

"Madame," he says courteously, sneezes loudly, and disappears through a movable wall panel. A stagehand rounds the nearest corner.

"Who was that?" His voice is suspicious, his eyes dart around the alcove. They all look for a phantom, Mme. Giry notes, for a creature with Death's head, or no nose, for a malevolent spirit, a monster. No-one is looking for a man. She draws herself up imperiously.

"I have a slight cold," she states, producing a small square of white lace from a pocket and holding it to her nose. The stagehand moves away, easily satisfied. As he moves around the next bend in the passage, the panel opens a little, and she can see the side of Erik's face, the side without the mask. She meets his eye and smiles slightly, tucking her handkerchief away again.

"Are you unwell?"

He sighs and nods.

"You should go down to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, if I may? You needn't worry about me coming down -- if you agree I shall meet you in the passageway off the chapel -- you still use that passage, no? I have heard you when I pray, singing."

"Three 'o'clock in the afternoon?" His voice is rougher, softer than usual.

"Three 'o'clock," she confirms. "Good evening to you."


	2. Chapter 2

The chapel is silent. Light falls through the stained glass, softly coloured, beautiful.

"Madame." Even muted by congestion and sore throat, his voice is sonorous, beautiful, like the light -- soft and coloured. She turns and he is standing before that artful, almost perfectly hidden door he made all those years ago. Usually he does not open it -- he sings and sometimes talks through a grille in the wall. She always prays next to that grille, just in case. But today she steps into the passage beyond the door, while he closes the opening politely behind her. They turn to face each other.

He looks worse than the previous day, flushed and disheveled. From what Mme. Giry can see, his eyes and nose are red, and he looks exhausted. He sneezes tiredly, pressing a plain white handkerchief to his nose.

"Apologies." It is a self-conscious murmur, and she knows why. She lowers her gaze as he turns away, removes his mask, blows his nose. He dabs delicately at the mask, to clean it, and turns back to her, replacing it. Sighing, she takes a black-gloved hand in her smaller one, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. He squeezes her hand slightly.

"I am sorry for asking you to come up here. You would probably be much more comfortable in bed, no? Can I do anything for you?"

"I can't sing." His voice is flat, miserable. He sings a few bars softly, to show her, his voice lacking all its usual lustre and depth. She can tell it pains him. After a few notes his voice, so strong from hours of song, rasps, fades, dies. The silence that falls is as soft and tenuous as his voice can be when singing, like a cobweb a sigh could break. He drops his head and the moment falls away. His breath catches; a sob. What does he have without his voice? His organ, maybe, his second love. But nothing can take the place of song. For a heartbeat she feels his confusion, his loss.

"Go to bed." She says softly, a suggestion. "You'll feel better there, perhaps. You'll be able to sing again soon, when you're better." He looks so dejected she goes to him, tentatively puts one arm around him, pulls him gently towards her. She takes one of his hands in each of hers and looks into his face for a moment. She smiles at his familiar features, squeezes his hands.

"Is anyone out there?"

He shakes his head and opens the door for her.


	3. Chapter 3

Mme. Giry kneels, praying, in the chapel. Her cane lies along the ground beside her, and light from the stained-glass window illuminates her face. She is praying for Erik. She has not seen him for three days, which is unusual. She refuses to believe that he is seriously ill; hopefully he is getting better, staying in bed, perhaps. Somehow she cannot imagine him acquiescing to that. He is probably playing his organ. She resumes her prayer.

His voice surprises her as it crescendos gently, opens, like a rose, drifting through the grille. He is singing, softly, the music she is teaching the ballet girls the dance to. His voice has regained its colour and depth, and she smiles.

"You're better?" She asks it softly, unwilling to interrupt the song.

"Yes." She can hear him smiling, something uncommon enough. He finishes the song for her, every note tuneful and resonant.

"Stay well," she murmurs.

"Madame." He does not need to speak his gratitude.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :)
> 
> Pontius


End file.
